Smarter than the Average Bear
by TheAnomally
Summary: DISCLAIMER: Sherlock and all characters of the show belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, and the show is owned by BBC. The OC character is mine, and that is it. Fun with John, Sherlock and an OC...Reichenbach


-Evening, St. Bartholomew's—

I sigh bitterly. _"_ _First trip to the UK, and where to I find myself? Answer, in the bowels of some hospital!"_

The outside of the hospital is got this whole creepy vibe going; old styling, but the inside looks newer. I creep down the hall and through the doors into the morgue. I look through the charts and find what I am looking for; the forms are all filled out neat and tidy, a little too tidy. I find the freezer I am looking for and pull it open and slide the stiff out as the slab will go. I am nervous but it's not because of the corpse before me, but because of the excitement all this is causing me. I look again at the chart and at the body and back and forth. I return the folder to where I got it and then step back from the slab; I huff and then return the body to back where I found it.

I slip out of the morgue and creep up the hall. _"_ _New goal, get out, and don't get caught."_

I hear footsteps and I duck into a nearby room; it's a cleaning supplies closet. My foot hits something and I lift it up higher and put it down before realizing where it now is. My left trainer now resides in a mop bucket with a brownish watery residue in it.

I roll my eyes and think. _"_ _That had better NOT be body juices!"_

The steps move away, I wipe my tread off the best I can, and I leave the closet. My sneaker now squeaks and creaks when I walk. I make it into the elevator and turn; I can see my tread prints faintly on the white floor, I roll my eyes again.

-2 days ago.-

 _"_ _Could you come? I really need your expertise."-_ _JW_ Little clicks sounded off.

He sent the text, he needed someone, this was not right, none of it was right. His head was pounding; and he had not been thinking straight since yesterday. He was mentally cursing the bike messenger that ran over him at St. Barts, while he stared at his phone.

His phone beeped. _"_ _You'll have to be more specific; I have many specialties…..WHO is this BTW?"_

 _"_ _Stop being cheeky, you know damn well who this is! Will you come?" -_ _JW_ he painstakingly typed, while grumbling.

Mycroft Holmes wasn't the only one with connections; John had been in the army, and had met a wide range of people while in the service.

His phone peeped again. _"_ _Don't be an ASS, and since you asked so nicely. I assume you are paying my way?"_

Watson looked around; he did have money now, more than he had on his pension. The cases they had worked on paid modestly, and he had managed to save some of it. He wasn't rich, but he was no longer living pension to pension.

 _"_ _Fine, will get you on the first flight I find." - JW_ The phone chirped as he hit send.

His phone sounded off again. _"_ _Stop initialing your texts; you're not writing a letter! C you soon."_

John huffed a bit and made reservations on the earliest flight to the UK; he sent off the information and that was that.

-Red Eye-

Bleary eyed travelers filed out of the terminal heating for the parking lots, shuttles and rental parks. One passenger held minimal luggage, and hailed a cab. The airport soon shrunk in the distance as the puttering car headed off down the road.

A phone screen illuminated the back of the cab as a text was sent. _"_ _Heading to the hotel, I am beat, argue your case, make it good, or I'm going to punch you in the face!"_

The cab dropped off his fair at a modest hotel and drove off as his fair and tip had already been provided.

 _"_ _Case? You already said you would." –_ JW. The phone peeped as the person checked in at the front desk.

The person grumbled as the key card was handed over; a text was sent as the elevator rose to the right floor. _"_ _Not in mood; kindness was squashed in coach along with my good humor, and patience! This better be good!"_

Bags were thrown on the floor as the person crawled into bed; whining aching stomach was ignored, as her eyes closed.

 _"_ _Meet me for breakfast; I'll fill you in. – JW."_ The phone peeped.

She opened her sore scratchy eyes and looked at the text; she huffed and mumbled an affirmation as she fell asleep. Her first trip to the UK and she did not even want to look at the city right now.

-Morning—

Utensils were dropped on to the plate with a clang. "You want me to do WHAT!?"

"Keep your voice down!" Watson hissed. "I'd do it myself, but no one will let me near there!" He explained. "Look you go in, do your thing, and then leave..."

She cut him off. "Don't even think of saying your next word!" She then pointed at him. "I think you actually might have brain damage."

John looked at his companion; she was eyeing the impressive bruise on the side of his head, and it could be brain swelling of some sort, but in his gut he HAD to know. Lestrade, Molly, and everyone were not letting him anywhere near St. Bartholomew's.

"He never would cry or express any sentiment; I kept having to remind him about those emotions when we were in public." John explained earnestly. "Above all someone as brilliant and confident as him would never do that." John said pain was obvious in his voice. "He would never admit that he made anything in his life up; even to orchestrate a complex lie to make us all look stupid, he would let you know that right then and there." John finished with a sad smile.

Watson placed his fork down and folded his arms over his midsection; he looked around, as if trying to shake the memory of that day out of his head.

She looked at him; his posture was an attempt at blocking, but what he was trying to shield himself from was already breaking his defenses. "Fine, fine, I'll do it. Just stop doing that, it's OK to remember and feel sad…."

"I'm not sad, well I am, but I'm also mad at myself!" He hissed at her.

She raised her hands to ward off his burst of anger. "I am getting that, but why?"

She finished her food, and the two walked off into the city. In the park away from the CCTV cameras John continued now that he was a little calmer.

"Before it happened I got a call; it was a fake call, but it got me to stupidly dash off like a dolt." John said. "Oldest trick in the book, and I fell for it." He sighed miserably.

They had been safe in the pathology lab, no cops on their tail, no assassins around them, and above all no Moriarty. Then it happened, that damn phone call that made him run off to help their landlady who supposedly had been shot. John knew Moriarty was everywhere, in the computers, in everything tech, so why not the phones. Upon finding her fine, he had half figured it out, and ran back to St. Barts. His hind sight of course was 20/20 the tattooed man with Ms. Hudson was one of their assassin neighbors, no doubt one was on his heels as well. Sherlock was right, he saw without ever observing. He hung his head and then sighed.

She looked around uncomfortably. "Yea you were and are an idiot, but I came when you called so I win the biggest dimwit contest, so can we get on with it? John looked up and stared at her confused. "Well then when are we doing this thing?"

-Presently—

The elevator hummed softly as it went up, when it stopped at the lobby level people got on and the girl disembarked. She avoided the cameras as she headed out the doors; nearby a cab waited and she hopped into it.

"Well…" John asked.

She looked at him and rolled her eyes. "I think we have a new front runner for our idiot contest…"

John looked at her and then looked incredibly crest fallen; had he been wrong? He never got a good look at Sherlock after he had jumped, and he had been so disoriented from the concussion he sustained. All he had been able to do was touch the fallen man's wrist, and spy dark hair, and the dark coat. Then he had been pulled away, the next hours were a blur. Lestrade looking sad, most of the cops giving him disdainful or smug glances. He even received a threat or two from coppers who had been regularly insulted by Sherlock. His blog watchers were a mix bag of spiteful commenters, threateners, conspirators, and those who said they knew it all along. He did not want to think of this anymore, or even going on another day without the odd man, or the fantastic adventures they would go on.

She stared at him, watching him about to hit depression supernova, "Hey drama queen, I didn't mean you. Sheesh you think you and he were engaged or something."

"What…huh…no we weren't…uh like that. Why does everyone think that?!" John blurted out.

She pinched and then patted his face. "Because you're acting like a wife who will never see her beloved ever again."

"No I'm not, and if anything if WE were in a relationship, which we WERE NOT, he would be the wife." John spit back.

She laughed. "Actually you both would be husbands but that's for later on down the road. Getting back on point, the new winner would be the Medical Examiner. Whoever is on that slab is too short, even with the crushed skull and shattered legs, it still does not make up for the missing inches, or whatever you Brits call the little measurements. ." She then waved her hand around. "Unless your medical examiner is blind, then the conclusions make sense, but I am assuming you know this person and they are not vision impaired…"

"Are you sure?" John had to ask.

She gave him a look. "You asked for this certain expertise and THEN you question it." She then sighed. "Duh, yes I am sure; whoever is under that sheet is not your Sherlock Holmes."

John breathed a sigh of relief; this was certainly good news.

-Cemetary.—

Ms. Hudson sobbed a bit. "…and the explosions he made after one in the morning; body parts in the fridge and ice box!"

John laughed on the inside, but on the exterior he was all sad clown. He led Ms. Hudson away, but then turned and started talking to the onyx headstone. His voice cracked as he said his goodbyes to his friend; he stepped all over the plot and laid his hand on the headstone. The stone was ugly and frankly out of place in this cemetery; Mycroft had terrible taste, he probably picked this one because he knew his brother would hate it. He turned again and went to catch up with the landlady; she was still weeping slightly. He led her to the waiting car; he felt he was being watched, no he KNEW he was being spied upon. He had made the awkward turns at the gravesite to get a better look at the surroundings, but he saw nothing. Before getting in the car he thought he spied a shadow moving through the yard, but then it was gone.


End file.
